I am thinking of Somedays
by QuietLittleVoices
Summary: You told me mornings were the best time to break your own heart. So here I am smoking your brand of cigarettes for the scent. - Ten Love Letters by Clementine Von Radics ((End!verse))


The sun is shining through the frosted window and being dispersed along the veins of ice stretching out to the corners, only stopping when the window turns to wood. You shiver and want to pull the blankets tighter around you, but he's got them bundled all around his shaking frame.

He gets so cold that sometimes you worry he won't last the winter. You want to curl around him protectively but you know that it's no longer your right to do so, so you just sit next to him and watch the ice seep into his bones.

Another shiver, bigger than the others, wracks his frame and then he goes still. For a dull moment, you wonder if he's finally succumbed to the chill, but you reach over and feel his still steady breathing against the palm of your hand. You don't know how that makes you feel, so you reach over him and into the nightstand, bracing yourself with a hand on his hip. After fumbling in the drawer, you pull out the small tin and the thin lighter, both familiar and battered from frequent use. You pop out one rolled cigarette and return the tin to the nightstand before holding the lighter to the tip as you sit back on your side of the bed.

By the time he wakes up, you're trying and failing to blow smoke rings. You're on your second cigarette.

He frowns. "You're doing it wrong," he tells you, but he stays there and watches you and doesn't give you the correct way to do it, so you keep on the way you were going before. You pretend to ignore the small frown on his face but it's actually the only thing in the room that you can concentrate on. That's usually the case, though, so it's more like you're not paying attention to it. It is what it is and it is what it's always been.

Finally, he takes the cigarette from you and puts it in his own mouth as he leans back on his elbows. You watch how casual he is, trace the flat lines of his chest down to where his skin disappears under the ugly duvet. He's beautiful. "I don't love you," you tell him.

He takes out the cigarette and blows a perfect smoke ring in your face. "I know. I don't love you, either." He looks utterly unconcerned with the topic of conversation.

You wish you knew what to do with your hands. They lie uselessly in your lap and you watch him curl his fingers around the cigarette. It's half smoked already. He's going to have to get a new one out soon.

"Did you ever?" you ask. You don't look at him because he isn't looking at you.

You feel him shrug, feel the shift of the pillows and the blanket as he does it. "Probably," he says. He takes a drag on the cigarette. "Yes, definitely. A long time ago." He glances at you out of the corner of his eye and smirks to find you already look at him. "Did _you_ ever?"

"I don't know," you tell him, because you don't. It's the truth, and one of the only ones you've ever known. This uncertainty inside of you. _Did you ever love him?_ you ask yourself daily, but you don't know how the answer would change anything that's happening now.

If the answer is yes, then you've stopped loving him and let the world go to ruin because of it. _I used to love you_ means _I don't love you anymore_. _I used to love you_ means _you've changed and you're no longer good enough_.

If the answer is no, then you've spent years lying every time you touch his hips like his bones are hollow but you're still worried that he'll fly away unless you leave bruises. _I never loved you_ means _this was all for nothing_. _I never loved you_ means _you were never good enough_.

You don't know which is worse. You don't think you want to know. You hope he doesn't really want to know either. You think he does.

Maybe if you used to love him then you'd still love him. Maybe if you used to love him you'd still be here. Maybe if you didn't before, you would now. Maybe it doesn't matter.

He blows another smoke ring at your face and grins, all his teeth showing. You think he looks a bit like a shark. You know he's just as deadly, and he doesn't even need as much as blood in the water to make a strike.

"Get out of my face," you mutter, waving away the smoke.

He puts out the cigarette and then leans over to kiss you. His mouth tastes like ash but you know yours isn't much better. Hell, you'd been smoking more than he had. When he puts his fingers on your skin, you realize how cold the room is around you. He's shivering and you don't know if it's cold or pleasure. Maybe both.

You don't think it matters.


End file.
